


Strictly Academic Interest

by sgt_jerk



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Professors, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-05-18 19:21:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19340989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgt_jerk/pseuds/sgt_jerk
Summary: It isn't easy to nurture young minds, especially when your respective university departments are sworn rivals.Even while fraternizing with the enemy, Professors Crowley and Aziraphale certainly have their work cut out for them.





	1. Secrets, Secrets

“Oh, please,” Aziraphale grumbled, “will you pipe down?” Crowley had been laughing, no, cackling, for eight minutes straight as the other man had explained the situation to him. “The absolute last thing we need is for someone to find out that I know that you know.”

“Oh, _Az_.” 

“What?! I’ve told you what needed to be done and I-“ He faltered, silvery blond curls rustling as he shook his head in what could only be described as an expression of deepest woe. 

“...And you gave it away.”

“I…prompted his line of inquiry.” 

“You _gave it away_.”

“He was going to be dropped from doctoral candidacy!”

“And you gave him the _first publishable research you’ve done in years_.”

Aziraphale spluttered. “Well, what would you have done?!” 

This seemed to give Crowley a moment’s pause. “...I’d have told him to sod off.”

“Anthony J. Crowley, you are an _absolute_ liar.” Aziraphale gave him the most withering look he could manage, under the circumstances (the circumstances, as it happened, were that the two adjunct professors were both three beers deep at the campus watering hole at 3 in the afternoon. It was hard to look dignified in St. Beryl’s, regardless of the time of day; it had that effect on people). Crowley grinned wickedly, and pushed the remainder of his drink towards Aziraphale, who cupped it in his two hands like a relic. 

“So, what, are you going to go on another excavation? Again?”

“I’ve no clue. But I’d be extraordinarily grateful if you kept quiet about it.” 

“How’ll you get the funding? You’re not just going to stumble upon another priceless 4th century sword-”

“I KNOW! I know I won’t!” Aziraphale leaned back and drained the rest of the beer in one go, which made Crowley raise an eyebrow. Resting the glass back on the bar, he belched demurely behind a hand. “‘Scuse. I’m sorry Crowley, but I can’t abide being poked at about it at present.”

“Alright, alright,” The red-headed man gave him a deeply inscrutable look, if not an entirely unsympathetic one. “Just so long as you’re sure.” 

“But that’s just it, what if I...what if I did the wrong thing?” He shot Crowley a look that would have put a kicked retriever to shame. Underneath the barely disguised pout, he could make out a trickle of very real upset threatening to burble to the surface. Against his will, sympathy swelled in him for the man. After three years in the department, Aziraphale still didn’t understand the concept of ‘publish or perish’, not in the slightest.

“Angel...I’m not sure you’re capable of doing the wrong thing.”


	2. Yours or Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Furtive activities.

\- Four Years Later -

“...And that’s why you can absolutely never, under any circumstances, take archaeo-ceramicists at their word when it comes to hard-dating early grave sites. Any questions?”

Anathema, bless her, was doing a terrible job TA-ing. She’d seemed distracted the entire week, and had forgotten to bring the extra printouts for the Monday class, which meant that nobody had a single idea what Crowley was talking about in class that day. He’d assumed that encouraging all the undergraduates to pirate their textbooks would have consequences, but he hadn’t assumed that those consequences would be occurring in the first few days of fall semester.

“Young master Wensleydale….what’s up?”

“Sorry but...aren’t you an archaeo-ceramicist?”

“Yes, and you shouldn’t trust us, _especially_ when trying to establish a solid cultural timeline. Class dismissed, we’ll do museum collection ethics next week, please bother Ms. Device for your reading assignments!”

As the undergrads filed out, Anathema was the last to get up, seemingly startled from deep thought. The latest and greatest of his advisees, it seemed, was not quite good at doing the sort of broad administration work he desperately needed help with. It was for the best, he supposed, because it would be a damn shame if she went on to get stuck as an assistant in some mid-level university somewhere.

He hopped onto the desk next to her, and rapped lightly on her shoulder.

“D’you think I was too abstract for week one?”

“No, no! Of course not,” she shuffled in a selection of papers back into her bag, stuffing her laptop in after. “It’s an advanced lecture, they should be up to speed after last year...oh, _drat_.”

“No bike lock?”

She sighed heavily, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “No bike lock.”

“You know, Newt has _The Turpin_ ,” He grinned down at her toothily, an expression she dismissed with a raise of a dark eyebrow. “I’m sure he’d give you a ride.”

“If I could step foot in it without him breaking into a sweat, I would.” She swept up her mug and long jacket, seemingly remembering what she was lingering for.

“Oh, and I’m...I’m really sorry about the readings this week. Just some family things. I’ll make sure I get everyone next class, and I can send out emails for-“

He waved her off with a hand. “Nah, nah. I’m the one supposed to be advising you, remember?” He patted her shoulder absently, having noticed a flicker of blonde bobbing beyond the lecture hall door. “They’ll catch up eventually. Enjoy the Turpinmobile.” Groaning as she went, she hurried out of the hall, Aziraphale catching the door from her as she exited.

The other man’s brow was firmly knitted together, and he was managing to look both manic and exhausted at the same time. Concern immediately jumped in Crowley’s throat, unbidden.

“You didn’t respond to my texts.”

“I’ve been lecturing all day, why-”

“...We have a very serious problem.”

“Alright. Yours or mine?”

“Yours, if you please.”

 

Aziraphale had hustled down the corridor and into the basement as if he was in danger of being jumped at any moment by an aggressive trash bin. Crowley, whose long legs normally outstripped him at an easy pace, scurried behind him, concern mounting the further down they went. He could tell, even at a slight distance, that Aziraphale’s shoulders were knotted and tense.

Office hours weren’t for another 40 minutes, give or take, and if they couldn’t solve Aziraphale’s Very Serious Problem by that time, then Crowley supposed office hours would be least among his concerns.

He ushered him inside, pushing aside a stone planter and pulling up the usual cushy chair Aziraphale favored (the one where the throw pillows had fully conformed to his backside. Not that Crowley was in the habit of _trying_ to think about Aziraphale’s backside, it just sort of...happened, sometimes).

Patting the chair by way of direction, Crowley bolted back to the staff office with a “Hold on, just a pinch…”

Depositing a well-battered Tadfield University mug in the other man’s hands, he settled at his own desk. “There. Kettle’s on. What the devil is the matter?”

“I...might have accidentally overheard a meeting this morning. In the upper department office.” He peered gloomily down at the mug, brow still deeply furrowed. “You had better have decaf…”

Crowley rattled a box of chamomile tea bags tucked behind a slightly less imposing planter, pointedly labeled AZ USE ONLY. “Go on. Meeting, upper office...?”

“Yes, well. As it turns out the invitation was exclusively extended to Gabriel and the tenure track-”

Crowley couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose.

“...Oh, _don’t_ you start. My point is, this meeting was exclusively senior staff, and the _dean_ was there, and I certainly didn’t get any notice of it. They’re supposed to tell all of us when they’re holding meetings, you know.”

Crowley, pursing his lips, wheeled a hand in the universal, _get on with it, sometime this century_ gesture. Aziraphale huffed. “And they were discussing enrollment. _And_ restructuring for the liberal arts school as a whole.”

“I’m failing to see why this is a serious problem-”

“Crowley, my _dear_ ,” Aziraphale only took that tone when he was missing something really, truly bloody obvious. “They’re threatening _to cut out the department_.”

 _Oh._ His stomach dropped like a stone.

“What’s worse? They’re using enrollment numbers to decide which department to cut.”

“Which department? But in terms of numbers we’re-“

“...Neck and neck.”

Crowley leaned back in his office chair, his head suddenly spinning with the prospect of total, complete annihilation.

A very, very serious problem indeed.


	3. A Pedagogical Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale frets, Crowley makes tea.

The bitter struggle between the Archaeology department and the Art History department had been well documented in Tadfield University throughout the years, if mainly through hearsay and word of mouth. What had begun in distant, ancient times as a single department (Anthropological and Historical Studies) had fissured over the years into, as one of his favorite playwrights had said, two houses alike in dignity. Pedagogical difference, ethical focuses, and petty rivalries had driven the two apart years ago, in an event that the students had taken to calling The Great Schism and the professors had taken to not referring to at all. It was an ongoing Cold War between Crowley’s old alliance and Aziraphale’s current one, and the enmity between the basement and the third floor ran deep.

It wasn’t Crowley’s fault that Dr. Mephisto had taken issue with the dean and wound up cussing out the Department Head as well as four of the other top professors at the time. Just as it wasn’t, strictly speaking, Crowley’s fault that Professors Gabriel and Michael had been so stupid as to put their openly racist and classist curriculum plans in an inter-departmental email that could be, potentially, very easily leaked by someone with access to the department’s servers. And, even if it was, in some way, Crowley’s fault that such an email detailing what he found to be markedly prejudicial teaching plans found its way into the inboxes of, say, the entire liberal arts student body, he _certainly_ couldn’t be held responsible if said students decided to hold a massive, public, protest against the Anthropological and Historical Studies department that led to the splitting of a once-massive and overencumbered department into two warring halves.

No, Aziraphale would think to himself, this certainly couldn’t be Crowley’s doing alone. And even if he had been confided in regarding the specifics of Crowley’s potential involvement in the whole thing over dinner one evening, what would it matter now? They had split, and were on opposite sides, and had been for over four years. Any friendship they’d had was, and could only ever be, purely professional, in service of academic interest and holistic research practices. Art History needs the context of Cultural Archaeology, sometimes, in order to accurately assess the societal factors surrounding art, of course. One would be foolish indeed to try and separate the two completely, as his bosses in-department had tried to.

He’d told himself this as many times as needed, and he repeated it once more as Crowley hopped up to pluck the Tadfield University mug from his hands, depositing one of his favorite tea bags in it and pouring the bubbling water over it carefully. His fingers brushed his own as he handed it back to him, peering over the rim with a gently concerned look.

Aziraphale exhaled, setting about thinking of tea instead of the rare softness in Crowley’s eyes.

The other man leaned back in his black leather desk chair, steepling his fingers in front of him.

“So. You’re saying we’re both irrevocably fucked.”

“Not in so many words, but it does seem like it.”

“What did the tenure track have to say about it?”

“I didn’t linger for too long, but they seemed certain that they would be able to...bump enrollment,” He took a steady sip of his tea. “And what’s more, if they can cut staffing here and there, they’d be eligible for the Nutter Grant.”

“Of course they would,” Crowley said, more inwardly pensive than Aziraphale had seen him in quite some time. “You do realize, I’ll have to tell my side about this sooner or later.”

Aziraphale sighed deeply. “It’s why I came straight here. I couldn’t have Gabriel moving in mysterious ways without anyone else knowing,” he took another small sip of the tea, steeling his resolve. “And besides, my dear. I can’t have you losing your job.”

There was a raspy-sounding cough from across the desk, and when he glanced up, Crowley was intently picking at the leaves of a small porthos on the right hand corner of the table, his face ever so slightly tinged red.

“Right. I mean, who else would tolerate co-teaching intro lectures with me?”

“Oh, stop. You know what I mean.”

“Don’t I?” Crowley gazed across the desk at him, face occupied by an unreadable sadness.

“I…well,” he could feel himself faltering. It certainly wasn't Crowley’s fault that he had such arresting eyes. “I...really must be going. Can’t miss office hours!” He chirped, springing up from his chair. “Catch up later, my dear fellow!”

 

Crowley’s expression deepened into something like confused sadness, and took Aziraphale’s mug back from him. “Yes. Can’t have you missing that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like a good dollop of slow burn.  
> For our purposes, Dr. Mephisto is Lucifer. Mainly because I couldn't write Dr. Satan without cackling.


	4. Jelly Donuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody's happy with what Aziraphale's doing. Least of all Aziraphale.

Contrary to his prior excuses, Aziraphale did not, as it turned out, have office hours that afternoon. 

He had, however, nearly bolted from Crowley’s office and was in his own third floor study in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. He leaned back against the inside of the door, face flushed from what felt suspiciously like soul-deep embarrassment. 

_Didn’t_ he know what he meant? Aziraphale couldn’t help but hope he didn’t, not exactly. Not truly. He’d have to be more careful about what he said, how he looked at him. Which was what he always told himself when something like this happened, when Crowley would shoot off some quippy flirtation in response to a perfectly innocuous comment he’d made about fine male nudes in 2nd century sculpture, or would bring jelly donuts before their joint lectures, just for the two of them. It was simply maddening. 

What was worse was when Aziraphale could tell that he was being earnest. He’d affix him with some ___look___ that seemed suspiciously like open, unabashed adoration, and that almost always put Aziraphale out of commission for twenty minutes, at a minimum. 

It was all too much. 

He could have been thinking about how their world coming to an end, about the poor students who would be tossed lord-knows-where and set adrift within Tadfield University, with no one to guide them. 

However, in that very moment, all he could think about was how achingly soft Crowley had looked at him as Aziraphale had turned leave his office. It was more bare than any 2nd century sculpture he’d ever seen. It had left him shivering with the thought of seeing such want, of witnessing such yearning on Crowley’s face, lain out only for him. These lapses had always been so painfully brief, and Aziraphale, selfishly, wanted nothing more than to elicit that softness from him, again and again and again.

 

And, for heaven’s sake, he was a _professor_. He had degrees, plural. And here he was, stupidly playing the role of canon fodder in the direct firing line of an administration that he’d been defending to none other than Crowley for the better part of their six-year-long companionship. Being completely lost at sea over both a man _and_ his job was much, much too much, and foolish to even contemplate.

“Aziraphale?”

As if on cue, there was a hammering on the other side of the office door, and he jumped, nervously straightening his bow tie and plucking at the hem of his vest.

“Do come in!”

He made himself look busy straightening of the many piles of books stacked about the office, trying and failing to quell the icy cold spike of anxiety rocketing through his body at the voice of the Art History department head.

Gabriel cracked the door wide, a genial smile pre-plastered across his face. 

“I’m not interrupting, am I? Oh, whoopsie,” The pile of books closest to the door clattered to the carpeted floor with a series of dull thuds that made Aziraphale cringe. He scurried to place them out of harm’s way as Gabriel swept into his nearest empty chair. “I’d like to clue you into a few things. Since you haven’t been responding to the adjunct-specific emails we’ve been sending out.”

Drat, drat, _drat_ it all. Aziraphale settled for gently placing his poor once-toppled books in a drawer, and sat gingerly across from Gabriel. “I apologize, I’ve just been teaching the intro lecture course as well as the-”

“And I’m teaching three early morning seminars. I made your schedule, I’m aware of what you teach,” He folded his hands, crisp and businesslike, on the desk. 

What began, for Aziraphale, as a normal gulp turned into a dry, nervous one. He tugged at the bottom-most button of his vest. “I’m mostly concerned with the intro lecture, actually. You co-teach with, who, Andrew Crowley?”

“Ah- well, Anthony Crowley, actually.”

“Sure. Well, I’m going to have to ask you to drop your co-teaching placement.”

“I- come again?” 

“You. Will be dropping. Your co-teaching placement.” Gabriel grinned, hard edges of it stretching his wide, handsome face aggressively. The tenured professor was a blunt object, disguised in a camel-hair suit jacket and grey turtleneck. “We’re in the process of making some alterations to the structure of the department. Nothing you really need to worry about, but we’re trying to direct enrollment more...fruitfully. Some young minds, in search of long and fruitful careers in museum studies, should be directed to us. Not to a dead-end job digging up pottery shards somewhere in the Sudan.” 

“But what shall I… I’ve already been introduced, I already have the readings prepared for the students, and I can assure you that I’m very well prepared this year to-”

“Not to worry, buddy. We’ll be assigning you a new co-teacher. Can’t have you wandering through the world alone, can we?”

“Then why-”

“Because, Aziraphale, your ___friend___ downstairs is preventing us from counting all of those freshmen entering into the course as Art History major candidates. They’re dual enrolled. And if you’d just drop the position, we can reassign the whole thing, and you won’t have to worry about it in the least,”

“But Professor Crowley would be out of a position as well!”

“Well, yes. Of course, your student reviews are great. But it’d be even more beneficial to the department if we could re-assign you to someone in the department who hasn’t been publishing so… aggressively. It just makes us look bad.” 

Aziraphale blinked a few times in quick succession, stomach having dropped what felt like a whole mile below the earth’s crust. Crowley wasn’t necessarily the type of academic to publish coddling, digestible research, easily repurposed by the local museum to validate their collecting practices. The last article he’d put forth had publicly substantiated a foreign government’s claim that no fewer than ten pieces of bronze statuary previously classified as an “anonymous gift” by university researchers had, in fact, been stolen from a defunct dig site. It made Aziraphale tingly with glee just to think about it. 

Gabriel’s expression soured at the mention of Crowley’s publishing habits, but he quickly recovered his genial smile. “Regardless. I’d like you to consider the idea. I’m afraid the plan’s been verbally cosigned by the Dean already, really no way around it,” He leaned forward across the desk, clapping a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and crowding him with a long stare. “Wouldn’t want to make any choices you’d regret, would you?”

“I would most certainly not, of course!” Aziraphale set his jaw, steeling himself for the lie. “It sounds like a great plan. Can I take some time to...to think about it?”

Gabriel chuckled, smile unerring. “I don’t see why you’d need to, but please. Feel free.”

With one final clap on the shoulder, Gabriel straightened to leave. “I’d like your response in six days, absolute max.” He tossed the response over his shoulder, all self-assured casualness. “Can’t have the semester go on for too long, can we?”

Sweeping out of the office, he closed the door heartily behind him, and Aziraphale slumped back into his chair, with shaky breaths following the pinprick of tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Aziraphale, poor guy. I wish I didn't know people like good ol' Gabe out there in the world, but I do.
> 
> For those interested, I have a blog! I'm chatty about headcanons and things over there. Pls say hi!!  
> www.snakecrowleyy.tumblr.com


	5. Horse and Mann Investments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bad moon on the rise.

“Science, tech. It’s just the next evolution for mankind.” Mr. Famine said.

“Of course, what else is there?” Ms. War said, smug and growing richer by the minute with her spoils. “We must spend wisely.”

“We’ll come when needed, of course. They don’t call it angel investment for nothing.” said Mx. Pollution. 

“Do we have the numbers?” Mr. Famine inquired. 

“Only with all of us together,” Mx. Pollution retorted. 

“There is, after all, only one way into the dazzling future,” Ms. War stated.

“Friends, do not worry. They need us, and we have a duty to attend to them,” Said Mr. Death, with an air of finality. They put on their best, finest, faces and drove away from their tall, tall office building, leaving everyone and everything in their wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this is weird, but you thought I was just going to leave out the apocalyptic consequences of late capitalism?
> 
> We'll be back to our regularly scheduled quota of mutual pining next update, promise.


	6. Duty Calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anathema's had enough. Margaritas are purchased.

Anathema Device was annoyed. She’d traversed a whole three floors to Crowley’s office, done battle with the overly talkative department secretary (who had insisted on discussing a rather eventful seance she’d just facilitated), only to find a not-insignificant quantity (four) of students milling about outside the solid doors.

“What’s this?”

One of the undergrads rose from her seat on the hallway bench with a furrowed brow, wearing a positively thunderous expression.

“We’re waiting for _your_ professor to get his act together,” She huffed. Freshmen really did seem younger and younger these days. “We all tried knocking, at least twice.”

“Yeah, I even tried faking sick to get him to open up. No dice.” A lanky one with a shaggy swoop of black hair snapped his gum, peering over at her.

“Well...how do you know he’s in?” it was a long shot. The office hours were posted directly on the door.

The one closest to the door raised an eyebrow, which disappeared under a cloud of brown curls. “For one thing, we can hear him cussing.”

Sure enough, their conversation was punctuated with a potent, if decently muffled expletive from within the office. Anathema wished she could feel anything close to surprise.

“It’s really quite easy to drop a class you know. I’m sure we could switch to a different one.” The smallest of the students sniffed lightly, adjusting his wire-rimmed spectacles.

“Why don’t I try, knocking huh? And if not, I’d be happy to take your questions ...elsewhere.”

The students looked unilaterally apprehensive at her proposal, but none raised any objection.

She’d only been his TA for a short amount of time, but had been effectively working around Crowley’s bizarre habits and personal foibles for as long as she’d been in the program. If she didn’t know any better, she’d have said they were friends; if going out for drinks and complaining about the department counted as friendship. She’d regale him with tales of Newt’s latest attempt to ask her out, as well as help supply her for another reason why she should turn him down. In return, he recounted his own misguided attempts to entice Professor Aziraphale into defining their relationship, whatever the hell it actually was.

She gingerly rapped on the door, leaning an ear close enough to hear the unmistakable sounds of pacing coming from within. Another curse, slightly quieter this time, emerged, amending her knock.

“Professor?”

A groan.

“It’s Anathema. I’m with some students...for your _office hours_.” She rattled the door handle for effect.

A long pause of no pacing, and the door cracked open, with Crowley peeking his head out. He looked like shit, shoulder length hair heavily rumpled where he’d clearly been running his hands through it.

“If you’re quite finished, that is.” Anathema crossed her arms, forming a barrier between the students and their stricken-looking teacher.

“Why don’t we move hours to tomorrow. I’m...busy.”

Rolling her eye pointedly, Anathema swung the office door shut once more.

 

* * *

 

 

“When are you going to put him out of his misery, Anathema.” St. Beryl’s didn’t make a spectacular margarita, by any stretch of the imagination, but it’d have to do. “You do like him, correct?”

“I could ask you the same!”

“I’m in an _extremely_ precarious position, Anathema, and don’t you forget it,” Crowley grimaced, leaning back at a precipitous angle on his bar stool. “At least you know he’s daft about you.”

“Daft enough to not know how to ask out a woman. He’ll figure it out eventually.” She sipped her drink delicately, quirking an eyebrow. “Remind me again, what’s so precarious about asking out someone with whom you’ve already been practically going steady for years?”

“The stakes, Anathema! I can’t- I _won’t_ just-” He gaped at her, huffed an aggrieved sigh for effect, and pressed a finger to his temple. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

“Won’t is right. And I don’t want to hear about it any more until you’ve done something.”

“I _try_ to! It’s...it’s complicated.”

“Oh please. Wrong answer.”

“But his department hates-”

“Nonsense, and you know it. What will they do? You two practically live in each other’s offices as it is!”

“ _That_ is purely academic interest. Collaboration, for research. Which is exactly what I told Dr. Zebub when they asked.”

“Oh you are absolutely full of-”

“...And your skepticism is duly noted. I just...can’t. Not right now.”

He looked drawn and sad and far too despairing for their usual late-night catch ups.

“What brought this on, anyway?”

“None of your business.”

She shot him a hefty glare over the rim of her margarita glass, in no small way annoyed. Crowley’s theatrics were all well and good when they were in research period, and both had the free time to agonize over their respective romantic lives until the cows came home. The regular school year was different; classes on top of research and grading left them both with precious little free time to devote to personal ventures.

The faces of those four students, disgruntled and righteously angry, had reminded her of her own when she was in undergrad: paying too much to professors in big lecture halls who couldn’t be bothered to give a shit. Crowley _did_ give a shit about them, somewhere under his prickly, self-pitying exterior. He just needed to be shaken out of whatever had been the cause of this latest...funk.

Anathema didn’t budge her glare one inch, taking a slow sip from a cocktail straw..

“The minute you made me cancel _your_ office hours for you, you _made_ it my business.”

He set down his margarita glass and groaned, rubbing a hand along his jaw.

“...I’m going to get us more drinks, if that’s alright with you.”

“Only if you’re buying, _doctor_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I desperately want to do more Anathema POV chapters. I'd die for her.
> 
> tell me what yall thought! snakecrowleyy.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes very particular elements from my own time in art history/archaeology undergrad filled with a variety of...strange characters. Take that as you will.


End file.
